The problem is that anger doesn't go away. Neither do hurt or frustration or fear. Old injuries of the heart and the mind may no longer stab you in the neck with their searing pain the way they did when they were fresh, but they don't go away. I think they collect. Piled on top of one another in a jenky heap of rusting, rotting pieces and parts. Sometimes the pile shifts and some pieces break free. They bounce around, scrape your insides raw, and then ricochet back into the pile.
I need a garbage barge, or some composting worms or some shit like that. My reservoir is threatening to overflow.
How do you stop being angry? Don't say yoga. Everyone always says yoga. Fuck yoga. Booze causes too much collateral damage and laughter is more like a band-aid than a cure. I need Oprah. Or God. Same diff.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Left of center
There really isn't anything all that alarming going on with me. In fact, its all quite hum drum. Yes, there is sadness and times is hard and all that, but the actual situation I live with lacks the drama of even a Hallmark mid-week movie.
Some days are better than others. The best medicine I have discovered yet is to take a long walk in the cold air. The first 20 minutes are pure torture (not because I'm out of shape, thankyouverymuch), but because when my feet hit the open road, my mind takes advantage of the quiet and starts kicking it crazy style. I run through scenario after scenario...one more desperate than the next... in an attempt to offload the day's emotional detritus. My brain likes to throw out the baby with the bathwater. In order to process stress of any intensity, it has to work through all sorts of imaginary shit in addition to the real shit which is currently up in my face. After the first 20 minutes of mental bulimia, there is a sort of a calm. And by calm, I mean a less frightening internal dialogue that eventually spins itself out into dust and fumes. Keep walking.
I'm not worried(except when I am worried).
That's the nice thing about only being somewhat mentally ill. Perspective. I'm starting to own this as my challenge (oh dear, I'm becoming empowered) and I do think that there is a way to live through this without it running over me.
The dancer, the joker, the leader, the lover, the mother, the manager, the counselor, the freak. All the things that I am are touched by the fact that my brainworks are just to the left of normal.
I'm ok here on the westside. When it gets really dark, just remind me about that time I made you say "dzam...."
Some days are better than others. The best medicine I have discovered yet is to take a long walk in the cold air. The first 20 minutes are pure torture (not because I'm out of shape, thankyouverymuch), but because when my feet hit the open road, my mind takes advantage of the quiet and starts kicking it crazy style. I run through scenario after scenario...one more desperate than the next... in an attempt to offload the day's emotional detritus. My brain likes to throw out the baby with the bathwater. In order to process stress of any intensity, it has to work through all sorts of imaginary shit in addition to the real shit which is currently up in my face. After the first 20 minutes of mental bulimia, there is a sort of a calm. And by calm, I mean a less frightening internal dialogue that eventually spins itself out into dust and fumes. Keep walking.
I'm not worried(except when I am worried).
That's the nice thing about only being somewhat mentally ill. Perspective. I'm starting to own this as my challenge (oh dear, I'm becoming empowered) and I do think that there is a way to live through this without it running over me.
The dancer, the joker, the leader, the lover, the mother, the manager, the counselor, the freak. All the things that I am are touched by the fact that my brainworks are just to the left of normal.
I'm ok here on the westside. When it gets really dark, just remind me about that time I made you say "dzam...."
Friday, November 27, 2009
Cereal for Dinner
There is darkness creeping in. I have felt it hanging out around the raggedy edges of my well-being for a while now and have tried defending myself from the incursions of its slippery cold tentacles.
Shifting emotions render me incapable of trusting my own reactions to the mundane. A slight injustice might trigger rage, which I try to quell by clamping down tightly the space between my heart and throat. Yet some bursts through and I must move through space in an attempt to dissipate its power. The smell of Rice-a-Roni from a neighbors kitchen as it filters down to me, standing alone in the dark, elicits an embarrassing upwelling of sadness and longing.
I had high hopes for the aftermath of the paxil withdrawal. Hopes that I would be one of the people who find themselves stronger, happier, more stable than ever before once they kicked. So far, this is not the way things have played out for me. After a brief first act starring energy and happiness that I never quite trusted, the numbness, the distraction, the apathy have all returned to center stage.
I don't worry about this so much for myself as I do for my family. For Dan who wants nothing more than to have me back as the me that was me before things started crumbling. And for my kids. I don't want them to know this person.
When I think about my children and how this could affect them, I think about various books or movies where a child's recollection of living with a mentally ill mother are narrated. It goes a little something like this...
"When Mummy would have her spells, she would take to her bed for days. She liked it to be dark and she would play the same melancholy songs over and over on the record player. In the evenings, after we had finished our supper and had our bath, we would be allowed to visit Mummy in her bed. She would cuddle us close and put her nose in our hair and tell us we were the most darling children in all the world. Sometimes she would read to us from one of the magazines that she kept at her bedside, and sometimes she would tell us stories of when she was a little girl and performed in the ballet. My brother and I would try our best to mind our manners, and we asked her lots of questions so she would keep talking in that dreamy far-away voice she used. Eventually, though, I would say something fresh or my brother would rumple the bed-clothes with his wiggling and Mummy would start to cry. She would cry and cry and hug us and cry and Daddy would have to come and take us away."
I made that up. Its not nearly as dramatic as all that over here, but the point remains that I don't want my children to have even their own versions of these sorts of memories. Memories of a mother who was lost and labile.
I have to get a handle on this before it comes to that.
Shifting emotions render me incapable of trusting my own reactions to the mundane. A slight injustice might trigger rage, which I try to quell by clamping down tightly the space between my heart and throat. Yet some bursts through and I must move through space in an attempt to dissipate its power. The smell of Rice-a-Roni from a neighbors kitchen as it filters down to me, standing alone in the dark, elicits an embarrassing upwelling of sadness and longing.
I had high hopes for the aftermath of the paxil withdrawal. Hopes that I would be one of the people who find themselves stronger, happier, more stable than ever before once they kicked. So far, this is not the way things have played out for me. After a brief first act starring energy and happiness that I never quite trusted, the numbness, the distraction, the apathy have all returned to center stage.
I don't worry about this so much for myself as I do for my family. For Dan who wants nothing more than to have me back as the me that was me before things started crumbling. And for my kids. I don't want them to know this person.
When I think about my children and how this could affect them, I think about various books or movies where a child's recollection of living with a mentally ill mother are narrated. It goes a little something like this...
"When Mummy would have her spells, she would take to her bed for days. She liked it to be dark and she would play the same melancholy songs over and over on the record player. In the evenings, after we had finished our supper and had our bath, we would be allowed to visit Mummy in her bed. She would cuddle us close and put her nose in our hair and tell us we were the most darling children in all the world. Sometimes she would read to us from one of the magazines that she kept at her bedside, and sometimes she would tell us stories of when she was a little girl and performed in the ballet. My brother and I would try our best to mind our manners, and we asked her lots of questions so she would keep talking in that dreamy far-away voice she used. Eventually, though, I would say something fresh or my brother would rumple the bed-clothes with his wiggling and Mummy would start to cry. She would cry and cry and hug us and cry and Daddy would have to come and take us away."
I made that up. Its not nearly as dramatic as all that over here, but the point remains that I don't want my children to have even their own versions of these sorts of memories. Memories of a mother who was lost and labile.
I have to get a handle on this before it comes to that.
Friday, November 20, 2009
The flow
Clenching teeth churning gut.
The discomfort is comforting in a way that is discomforting.
Patterns well worn by practice. a stereotypy of controlled rage.
you won't fucking understand and I won't fucking make you understand.
the abyss where expectation ends.
The discomfort is comforting in a way that is discomforting.
Patterns well worn by practice. a stereotypy of controlled rage.
you won't fucking understand and I won't fucking make you understand.
the abyss where expectation ends.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Non-smoking section
I have come to the realization that there is something missing from my life and that something is smoking. I don't smoke, never have, really, but I've tried a lot. I remember the first time I tried smoking I was in the back seat of April Lassiter's car. I was probably in 10th grade. A ciggy was being passed around and I stepped up to the plate. Put the fag to my lips like it was no big whoop and took the hugest drag. At this point my only experience with inhalables was with pot and I knew from that scene that the bigger the hit, the better the ride. I quickly learned that this concept was not universal and exploded in a fit of coughing and gagging and hacking. So cool.
The next time I remember smoking was sometime in college. Even though two of my best friends were chain smokers, I never really had the inclination to join them. But, I was at a concert once with my boyfriend Dave and suddenly had the crazy urge to smoke. We bummed a marlboro red from someone in the crowd and I puffed away. That is until I became light headed and nauseated and faint. Again with the coolness.
So given my apparent inability to handle my smoke, why do I mourn the dearth of cigarettes in my life? I think it is because pretty much everyone I have loved and laughed with since the 90's has been a smoker. When there were smokes going around, there were also drinks, gossip and laughter. Memories of Lisa, (with her ridiculous habit that filled mason jars with nasty butt water), sitting on the fire escape, or the back porch of our house. In the dark, she would tell stories by the glow of the camel light. Memories of the drink club crew where I was the only non-smoker. Sitting outside in a little posse of comrades in cancer stick. The conversation never halting beneath the smoky haze. I admit, at times, I felt isolated by my inability to pick up the habit. Like an outsider, inside hanging with the children while the cool kids sneaked drags behind the garage. However, the smell of cigarettes makes me crazy nostalgic for those times, for those people. For the opportunity to breathe them in...their words, their energy, their second-hand smoke.
The next time I remember smoking was sometime in college. Even though two of my best friends were chain smokers, I never really had the inclination to join them. But, I was at a concert once with my boyfriend Dave and suddenly had the crazy urge to smoke. We bummed a marlboro red from someone in the crowd and I puffed away. That is until I became light headed and nauseated and faint. Again with the coolness.
So given my apparent inability to handle my smoke, why do I mourn the dearth of cigarettes in my life? I think it is because pretty much everyone I have loved and laughed with since the 90's has been a smoker. When there were smokes going around, there were also drinks, gossip and laughter. Memories of Lisa, (with her ridiculous habit that filled mason jars with nasty butt water), sitting on the fire escape, or the back porch of our house. In the dark, she would tell stories by the glow of the camel light. Memories of the drink club crew where I was the only non-smoker. Sitting outside in a little posse of comrades in cancer stick. The conversation never halting beneath the smoky haze. I admit, at times, I felt isolated by my inability to pick up the habit. Like an outsider, inside hanging with the children while the cool kids sneaked drags behind the garage. However, the smell of cigarettes makes me crazy nostalgic for those times, for those people. For the opportunity to breathe them in...their words, their energy, their second-hand smoke.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Mirror's edge
I've been feeling good lately. Really pretty fucking good. Gone is the feeling of walking through my day with cement shoes two sizes too big. Even the leash feels looser, longer and more forgiving. There is a kind of bubbly giddy feeling that catches me off guard sometimes. Its a little taste of euphoria, generally without context and with unknown etiology. The fucked thing is that every time it happens, I get to enjoy the feeling for only a moment or two before my brain steps in and... BUZZKILL. My mind quickly draws the contrast between this sensation and the dark slogging feelings that were the status quo until just recently. Hot on the heels of my brain's annoying interference comes the fear. Gripping fear.
I am dancing. I am dancing on the edge of a mirror and it feels good. It feels good and I can't resist checking out my own action, but once I stop and take in my reflection, the spell is broken. Where do I rest my eyes if I can't look back into the darkness, forward into the hazy unknown, or at myself in the mirror?
I am dancing. I am dancing on the edge of a mirror and it feels good. It feels good and I can't resist checking out my own action, but once I stop and take in my reflection, the spell is broken. Where do I rest my eyes if I can't look back into the darkness, forward into the hazy unknown, or at myself in the mirror?
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Dance Therapy
Last night was, hands-down, the best night I have had in a long while.
Dan and I went to see Rusted Root at the Aladdin Theater in town and had so much fun. Real fun! With laughing! and dancing! and no sign of the irritable and melancholic basket-case that has been haunting my person.
The paradigm shift started that afternoon when I decided to paint my nails. I never ever paint my nails, but I was inspired by the promise of a night on the town to put on some deep dark extra-shiny blue polish. The process of getting the polish on was a bit of a disaster (man I suck at manicures), but the results were transformative. Suddenly I was bad-ass and confident. Thank you, Sally Hansen.
Dan and I had dinner before the show and talked like friends talk. This should not be remarkable, but it is. Instead of fretting about our financial situation, we fantasized about how great it would be if we could just happen to come into an inheritance sometime very soon (sorry, g-mas). Instead of kvetching, we shot the shit and laughed. I could tell the night was going well when I started making snarky remarks about people's outfits. I can be a relentless wardrobe snarker. It is one of my best and worst qualities. However, it takes a certain amount of energy and interest in others to actually put the snark into action. The fact that I had that energy and interest last night was refreshing, and the dude with the faux-rasta beret and the chick with the bleach writing on her jeans provided the perfect entry level material for de-icing my considerable skills.
As soon as the show started, I was at the stage - front and center. I was there to dance. I've been a fan of Rusted Root's for 17 years and they are hands-down, my favorite band to see perform live. Losing myself in their music is my best medicine. Holy shit did I dance. Killed it. Had lengthy periods of "chi dancing", which is when my brain disengages from the process and the music flows through me like love. And I didn't hold back for fear of being laughed at by other people. I had the confidence of 100 Baryshnikovs going on in my little 2X2 square of dance floor. However, I can't say I was a complete island of self-contentedness. I did find myself wondering if the band noticed me. If they appreciated both the joy that their music inspired and the skill with which I transformed that joy into movement. The performer in me wanted to be recognized by the performers on stage.
At the end of the set, the lead singer tossed his guitar pick right toward me. It took a bounce and hit the floor between me and the guy next to me. I paused. I wanted it, but in the way that someone who is too cool to want it would want it. The guy picked it up and said, "its yours". "Thanks", I said, and I took it from him. It is my first piece of stage swag, and I'll keep it somewhere special. Not because it was touched by a rock star, but because it represents a night where I was recognized for being me. I'll remember how that felt most of all.
The last song they played was "Beautiful People", and I cried. Not crazy-hysterical tears, but tears of healing, of longing, and of gratitude.
Dan and I went to see Rusted Root at the Aladdin Theater in town and had so much fun. Real fun! With laughing! and dancing! and no sign of the irritable and melancholic basket-case that has been haunting my person.
The paradigm shift started that afternoon when I decided to paint my nails. I never ever paint my nails, but I was inspired by the promise of a night on the town to put on some deep dark extra-shiny blue polish. The process of getting the polish on was a bit of a disaster (man I suck at manicures), but the results were transformative. Suddenly I was bad-ass and confident. Thank you, Sally Hansen.
Dan and I had dinner before the show and talked like friends talk. This should not be remarkable, but it is. Instead of fretting about our financial situation, we fantasized about how great it would be if we could just happen to come into an inheritance sometime very soon (sorry, g-mas). Instead of kvetching, we shot the shit and laughed. I could tell the night was going well when I started making snarky remarks about people's outfits. I can be a relentless wardrobe snarker. It is one of my best and worst qualities. However, it takes a certain amount of energy and interest in others to actually put the snark into action. The fact that I had that energy and interest last night was refreshing, and the dude with the faux-rasta beret and the chick with the bleach writing on her jeans provided the perfect entry level material for de-icing my considerable skills.
As soon as the show started, I was at the stage - front and center. I was there to dance. I've been a fan of Rusted Root's for 17 years and they are hands-down, my favorite band to see perform live. Losing myself in their music is my best medicine. Holy shit did I dance. Killed it. Had lengthy periods of "chi dancing", which is when my brain disengages from the process and the music flows through me like love. And I didn't hold back for fear of being laughed at by other people. I had the confidence of 100 Baryshnikovs going on in my little 2X2 square of dance floor. However, I can't say I was a complete island of self-contentedness. I did find myself wondering if the band noticed me. If they appreciated both the joy that their music inspired and the skill with which I transformed that joy into movement. The performer in me wanted to be recognized by the performers on stage.
At the end of the set, the lead singer tossed his guitar pick right toward me. It took a bounce and hit the floor between me and the guy next to me. I paused. I wanted it, but in the way that someone who is too cool to want it would want it. The guy picked it up and said, "its yours". "Thanks", I said, and I took it from him. It is my first piece of stage swag, and I'll keep it somewhere special. Not because it was touched by a rock star, but because it represents a night where I was recognized for being me. I'll remember how that felt most of all.
The last song they played was "Beautiful People", and I cried. Not crazy-hysterical tears, but tears of healing, of longing, and of gratitude.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Trip
Hot Damn.
Going on one week paxil-free now and as expected its been quite a trip. Contrary to my expectations, though, it hasn't just been a week of hell. There have been some bright spots along the way intermingled with mind-warping weirdness.
Here are a few highlights:
Saturday morning was glorious here in Portland. Bright blue sky, amazing foliage and the perfect amount of fall chill in the air. I took myself out on a walk up one of my favorite trails nearby. I used to walk this trail every day before we had kids. Me and the dogs, or me and Dan and the dogs. I walked it a lot with Minna too, when she was little enough to ride in the carrier, but since then the visits have been few and far between. As I was walking I tried to calm my head and take in the scenery. For a while I was doing OK, feeling kinda foggy, but not too bad. And then the voices started. Actually, one voice. My voice. My voice from about 5 years ago. I can't really explain this without sounding even loonier than I actually am, but suffice to say that hearing me talking to me but knowing that the me that was talking to the me that was listening was somehow dredged up from my memories of years past gave me chills.
Saturday afternoon I needed a little alone time to chill out, so I headed to the studio to distract my brain with some TV. I flipped around and ended up on the cooking channel half-way into an episode of "Down Home With the Neelys". A few minutes later, I was sobbing, bawling, gasping for air. Totally overwrought by the loving banter between Pat and Gina Neely. She looooooooves the way he chops shallots- you better recognize! and he has never met a woman who makes better shramps. It was all too fucking much for my faulty wires to handle. Ridiculous.
By Saturday evening, I was feeling good. So good I decided it would be a great idea to pack up the family and head to The Old (or is it Ye Olde?) Spaghetti Factory. What the what? If you know me, you know that I think the Spag Factory is where good dining goes to die. Normally I consider the Spag Factory to the be restaurant equivalent of public pools. Ew. But on this night, I was seeing nothing but positives. Its cheap (and we broke), Pasta! (one of the few things both kids will eat without a fight), and trashy (both kids were in dirty sweats and slippers and I had no intention of changing them before heading out). When I put this suggestion to Dan, he paused and said....Spaghetti Factory? Huh. You must be trippin'. But he knew better than to stand in the way of my big idea, so off we went.
The SF did not disappoint. It is trashtastic. People fucking everywhere. Amazing that a place so humongous, yet shitty, was teeming with people willing to suck it up for the 30-40 minute wait just to get some-o-dat Manager's Special in their face. We got our beeper and headed up to the "Kids Korner" to wait. Any time the C in Corner is replaced with a K, you know you are in for a treat. The Kids Korner consisted of, literally, a korner filled with video games. The one in the back was our kids' favorite. For 50 cents a mechanical crane type device moved back and forth with accompanying sound effects that evoked images of a dinosaur trying to push out a hard poo. At some point it stopped and scooped up about 2 cents worth of crappy candy and dropped it in the chute. "A winner every time" the sign said. Fifty cents for a crappy pack of smarties? Winner!
I had no quarters so the kids stood with their little noses pressed up against the glass tank for about 20 minutes watching other kids "play" the game. Eventually, their tactic paid off and each one of them received a candy donation from another parent (who was probably cursing me for being so goddamn cheap). Free fun size Skittles and Nerds. Winner!
The food was crap, but the kids were really really good and we actually had a pretty relaxing meal. Of course about 30 minutes after we got home I had to puke over the railing off our front deck. The Old Spaghetti Factory, where the food is cheap and the bulimia is free.
Going on one week paxil-free now and as expected its been quite a trip. Contrary to my expectations, though, it hasn't just been a week of hell. There have been some bright spots along the way intermingled with mind-warping weirdness.
Here are a few highlights:
Saturday morning was glorious here in Portland. Bright blue sky, amazing foliage and the perfect amount of fall chill in the air. I took myself out on a walk up one of my favorite trails nearby. I used to walk this trail every day before we had kids. Me and the dogs, or me and Dan and the dogs. I walked it a lot with Minna too, when she was little enough to ride in the carrier, but since then the visits have been few and far between. As I was walking I tried to calm my head and take in the scenery. For a while I was doing OK, feeling kinda foggy, but not too bad. And then the voices started. Actually, one voice. My voice. My voice from about 5 years ago. I can't really explain this without sounding even loonier than I actually am, but suffice to say that hearing me talking to me but knowing that the me that was talking to the me that was listening was somehow dredged up from my memories of years past gave me chills.
Saturday afternoon I needed a little alone time to chill out, so I headed to the studio to distract my brain with some TV. I flipped around and ended up on the cooking channel half-way into an episode of "Down Home With the Neelys". A few minutes later, I was sobbing, bawling, gasping for air. Totally overwrought by the loving banter between Pat and Gina Neely. She looooooooves the way he chops shallots- you better recognize! and he has never met a woman who makes better shramps. It was all too fucking much for my faulty wires to handle. Ridiculous.
By Saturday evening, I was feeling good. So good I decided it would be a great idea to pack up the family and head to The Old (or is it Ye Olde?) Spaghetti Factory. What the what? If you know me, you know that I think the Spag Factory is where good dining goes to die. Normally I consider the Spag Factory to the be restaurant equivalent of public pools. Ew. But on this night, I was seeing nothing but positives. Its cheap (and we broke), Pasta! (one of the few things both kids will eat without a fight), and trashy (both kids were in dirty sweats and slippers and I had no intention of changing them before heading out). When I put this suggestion to Dan, he paused and said....Spaghetti Factory? Huh. You must be trippin'. But he knew better than to stand in the way of my big idea, so off we went.
The SF did not disappoint. It is trashtastic. People fucking everywhere. Amazing that a place so humongous, yet shitty, was teeming with people willing to suck it up for the 30-40 minute wait just to get some-o-dat Manager's Special in their face. We got our beeper and headed up to the "Kids Korner" to wait. Any time the C in Corner is replaced with a K, you know you are in for a treat. The Kids Korner consisted of, literally, a korner filled with video games. The one in the back was our kids' favorite. For 50 cents a mechanical crane type device moved back and forth with accompanying sound effects that evoked images of a dinosaur trying to push out a hard poo. At some point it stopped and scooped up about 2 cents worth of crappy candy and dropped it in the chute. "A winner every time" the sign said. Fifty cents for a crappy pack of smarties? Winner!
I had no quarters so the kids stood with their little noses pressed up against the glass tank for about 20 minutes watching other kids "play" the game. Eventually, their tactic paid off and each one of them received a candy donation from another parent (who was probably cursing me for being so goddamn cheap). Free fun size Skittles and Nerds. Winner!
The food was crap, but the kids were really really good and we actually had a pretty relaxing meal. Of course about 30 minutes after we got home I had to puke over the railing off our front deck. The Old Spaghetti Factory, where the food is cheap and the bulimia is free.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Paxilated
Things are getting wormy around here.
I'm in the final throes of a long wean off Paxil, the SSRI I started when Kelan was an infant. Even with the very gradual step-down in dosage over the course of the past 5 months, taking that final step off the good-times train is a motherfucker.
There is the nausea and the headaches and the sweating and the chills.
There is the crying and the irritability and the mood swings and the anxiety.
There's the "holy shit I'm losing my fucking mind" factor, generally attributed to the hallucinations, both visual and aural. I've heard Kelan calling for me when I knew for a fact he was not home and I've seen faces, scary faces, in the walls.
There is the crushing self-doubt. The inability to deal with sensory input and the loss of social skills. I struggle to look people in the eye, and if I do, it is pretty likely that I will say something totally lame because I feel like my brain is not attached to my body when I'm trying to come up with polite conversation.
My personal favorite are the "brain zaps" (this is the technical term), which are essentially electrical shocks going through the brain. I can feel them and I can hear them. Its the brain's way of saying "whatthefuckisgoingon" while trying to adjust to the change in neurotransmitter levels brought upon by the wean. They are related to seizures, but not considered dangerous in and of themselves.
The best way to quit this bitch is to couple the withdrawal with a full intestinal and liver cleanse. So I've given up coffee, sugar, ibuprofen and booze (minus an occasional glass of vino, because 'holy shit I'm losing my fucking mind') and am taking handfuls of nasty-ass herbs many times a day.
All this to try and get my groove back. Hope it works. It has to. Otherwise, hook me up with some fuzzy slippers and shuffle me off to the nut house because I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like to be insane.
I'm in the final throes of a long wean off Paxil, the SSRI I started when Kelan was an infant. Even with the very gradual step-down in dosage over the course of the past 5 months, taking that final step off the good-times train is a motherfucker.
There is the nausea and the headaches and the sweating and the chills.
There is the crying and the irritability and the mood swings and the anxiety.
There's the "holy shit I'm losing my fucking mind" factor, generally attributed to the hallucinations, both visual and aural. I've heard Kelan calling for me when I knew for a fact he was not home and I've seen faces, scary faces, in the walls.
There is the crushing self-doubt. The inability to deal with sensory input and the loss of social skills. I struggle to look people in the eye, and if I do, it is pretty likely that I will say something totally lame because I feel like my brain is not attached to my body when I'm trying to come up with polite conversation.
My personal favorite are the "brain zaps" (this is the technical term), which are essentially electrical shocks going through the brain. I can feel them and I can hear them. Its the brain's way of saying "whatthefuckisgoingon" while trying to adjust to the change in neurotransmitter levels brought upon by the wean. They are related to seizures, but not considered dangerous in and of themselves.
The best way to quit this bitch is to couple the withdrawal with a full intestinal and liver cleanse. So I've given up coffee, sugar, ibuprofen and booze (minus an occasional glass of vino, because 'holy shit I'm losing my fucking mind') and am taking handfuls of nasty-ass herbs many times a day.
All this to try and get my groove back. Hope it works. It has to. Otherwise, hook me up with some fuzzy slippers and shuffle me off to the nut house because I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like to be insane.
I am Balloon Animals, I am Cat Gut
When I close my eyes and try to put words to the feelings I am feeling this is what comes up:
I am cat gut. Strung out and stretched thin.
Invisible objects hurtle toward me.
Some strike. Sending vibrations that start deep in my belly rising like electricity to my heart and brain.
Some sail through the gaps. I can't seem to swing to meet them.
Tension and absence.
I am balloon animals. Silly, frivolous, garish.
Wear me on your head. You like me. I make you happy.
Put me down and move on. I slowly leak and disappear.
Pathetic latex exoskeleton.
Insubstantial glee.
I am cat gut. Strung out and stretched thin.
Invisible objects hurtle toward me.
Some strike. Sending vibrations that start deep in my belly rising like electricity to my heart and brain.
Some sail through the gaps. I can't seem to swing to meet them.
Tension and absence.
I am balloon animals. Silly, frivolous, garish.
Wear me on your head. You like me. I make you happy.
Put me down and move on. I slowly leak and disappear.
Pathetic latex exoskeleton.
Insubstantial glee.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
All the things
I'm finding myself with a bit of a split persona these days. Sometimes I'm giddily happy with the choices I've made and the life I'm living, while other times I'm sick with doubt and mournful of opportunities lost.
Do I smell the stank of a mid-life crisis wafting my way? Is this kind of reflection and dissonance going to lead me straight to the plastic surgeon/BMW dealership/Tahiti?
All the things I am and all the things I am not are playing air hockey in my head and heart. Back and forth, whoosh. crack. goal.
These years have been tough. These mothering years. Mothering mothering Smothering. Across from where I sit are two gallery quality images of the most gorgeous children you will ever meet. Deep eyes. Electric smiles. These images in my house are like a monument to the work I do each day. I don't hang the bullshit on the wall. The stubborn battles over shoes and waffles that threaten to strip me of my last shreds of sanity and patience on the daily. I keep that noise backstage as best I can.
What if someone else fought those battles? What if I were off designing plus-size swimwear, creating neotenous ceramic figurines coveted by mid-western housewives, raising grass-fed beef and selling it over the internet? Whatever it was, you know it would be rad. Different. Special. Right? Otherwise, what would be the point of these fantasies of all the things that could be, but are not? I'm not going to get myself in a spiral of self-doubt over your average work alternative, because the only possible alternative to the life I live is one that reeks with excellence, no? This is the shit that is crazy making. To on some fundamental level believe that I am better than what I live.
The accumulations of a life. A degree that is concomitantly obscure and timely, a marriage that has both deep roots and shaky limbs, two children that are my face in the world. Dan once told me that the reason they shine so brightly is because they are me. They are all the things I am not AND all the things I am.
When the dust settles, I'll have to see what is left and go from there.
Do I smell the stank of a mid-life crisis wafting my way? Is this kind of reflection and dissonance going to lead me straight to the plastic surgeon/BMW dealership/Tahiti?
All the things I am and all the things I am not are playing air hockey in my head and heart. Back and forth, whoosh. crack. goal.
These years have been tough. These mothering years. Mothering mothering Smothering. Across from where I sit are two gallery quality images of the most gorgeous children you will ever meet. Deep eyes. Electric smiles. These images in my house are like a monument to the work I do each day. I don't hang the bullshit on the wall. The stubborn battles over shoes and waffles that threaten to strip me of my last shreds of sanity and patience on the daily. I keep that noise backstage as best I can.
What if someone else fought those battles? What if I were off designing plus-size swimwear, creating neotenous ceramic figurines coveted by mid-western housewives, raising grass-fed beef and selling it over the internet? Whatever it was, you know it would be rad. Different. Special. Right? Otherwise, what would be the point of these fantasies of all the things that could be, but are not? I'm not going to get myself in a spiral of self-doubt over your average work alternative, because the only possible alternative to the life I live is one that reeks with excellence, no? This is the shit that is crazy making. To on some fundamental level believe that I am better than what I live.
The accumulations of a life. A degree that is concomitantly obscure and timely, a marriage that has both deep roots and shaky limbs, two children that are my face in the world. Dan once told me that the reason they shine so brightly is because they are me. They are all the things I am not AND all the things I am.
When the dust settles, I'll have to see what is left and go from there.
Friday, September 11, 2009
you say hoohoo, i say vagina
We are very open about our bodies in our family. The kids love to be naked and while the adults don't generally strip down and dance around the living room with glee, we definitely don't hide our bodies from our kids. The words penis and vagina hold no more or less significance than the words head or elbow, because we don't play the shame game when it comes to anatomy or bodily functions.
Kelan has the sensibilities of your average 2 year old boy. Being naked is a source of joy and even has its own dance, the "nah nah boo boo". He knows the word penis and thinks butts are funny, but that is about as far as his interest in physiology goes. Minna, on the other hand, is full of questions about how bodies work. We talk about the nervous system, the digestive system, eyesight, muscles and bones, and yes, how babies are made. One night when we were chatting in her bed, she asked about how babies get into mamas. She settled back into her pillow and sucked her thumb while I told the story. Daddies have sperm, and mamas have eggs. The sperm and the egg have to connect to make a baby. The Daddies sperm travels from inside his body and comes out through his penis. Minna had to stop sucking her thumb at this point because her mouth was agape, and then said...."what the????" in the most incredulous tone. She had the same reaction when I told her that the Daddies penis had to enter the mama through her vagina.
The weird thing is not so much that she reacted the way she did, but that she's never ever commented with disbelief about any other topic we've discussed. She's been told the physics of how airplanes fly and all about how volcanoes work, which to me are way more fucking incredible than ejaculation, without even a hint of awe. So why, when it comes to talking about penises, vaginae, and sex is she weirded out?
If I had told her that babies are delivered by giant birds that wear delivery man hats I think she would have bought it, full on. Was my honesty, my need to keep it real, the wrong approach for a pre-school brain? Was she picking up on signs of discomfort I was unknowingly portraying? I don't know.
We'll keep dancing naked and answering questions honestly up in here, but I'll be mindful of the fact that the subject of sex carries with it cultural baggage that even a four year old can perceive. What the....???
Kelan has the sensibilities of your average 2 year old boy. Being naked is a source of joy and even has its own dance, the "nah nah boo boo". He knows the word penis and thinks butts are funny, but that is about as far as his interest in physiology goes. Minna, on the other hand, is full of questions about how bodies work. We talk about the nervous system, the digestive system, eyesight, muscles and bones, and yes, how babies are made. One night when we were chatting in her bed, she asked about how babies get into mamas. She settled back into her pillow and sucked her thumb while I told the story. Daddies have sperm, and mamas have eggs. The sperm and the egg have to connect to make a baby. The Daddies sperm travels from inside his body and comes out through his penis. Minna had to stop sucking her thumb at this point because her mouth was agape, and then said...."what the????" in the most incredulous tone. She had the same reaction when I told her that the Daddies penis had to enter the mama through her vagina.
The weird thing is not so much that she reacted the way she did, but that she's never ever commented with disbelief about any other topic we've discussed. She's been told the physics of how airplanes fly and all about how volcanoes work, which to me are way more fucking incredible than ejaculation, without even a hint of awe. So why, when it comes to talking about penises, vaginae, and sex is she weirded out?
If I had told her that babies are delivered by giant birds that wear delivery man hats I think she would have bought it, full on. Was my honesty, my need to keep it real, the wrong approach for a pre-school brain? Was she picking up on signs of discomfort I was unknowingly portraying? I don't know.
We'll keep dancing naked and answering questions honestly up in here, but I'll be mindful of the fact that the subject of sex carries with it cultural baggage that even a four year old can perceive. What the....???
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Fun Mom
I've got almost 4 years of mamahood under my belt and with that has come a bit of knowledge of self-as-parent, and gawdamn, I am a fun mom. I'm a regular party with a purse. I'm the mom who rents the double decker firetruck shopping cart at the mall and sprints down the aisleways making siren noises as I swerve to avoid collisions with regular stroller pushing moms and my kids scream "faster, faster". A couple of weeks ago at a 5 year old birthday party, I was the only mom to go down the water slide while Minna cheered me on. I'm the mom who takes my kids on naked walks (them, not me, I'm not THAT much fun) through the neighborhood and do not give a fuck what the neighbors think. I'm the mom who always says yes to the free cookies at the grocery store, lets the kids paint my face AND doesn't wash it off before going out in public.
I guess being the fun mom goes along with my general philosophy of not taking oneself too seriously. That has got to be one of my biggest pet peeves ever (that and pushing the seasons). I often find my self thinking "lighten up bitches" in regards to other parents whilst in group situations. I'm often the only mom (dads tend to have different funness thresholds) actually willing to get wet at the fountain park. I usually end up soaked by the end cuz I would spend all my energy trying to avoid getting splashed otherwise, and what is fun about that? Once, I actually saw a mom who was standing at the edge of the water area get super pissed after getting splashed by a kid at play. She huffed and puffed, grabbed her son and left in a hurry. Her cunty disposition and her fear of water had me scanning the skies for flying monkeys.
Being a fun mom is not all about the kids, either. It can definitely be used for selfish purposes. Example, if the kids want to play restaurant I can stretch the length of time they will be occupado by at least 50% if I let them use real food. So, I hook them up with crackers, raisins, apples, popcorn, pitchers of water, and let them have at it. They get a really fun experience, and I get 20 minutes of peace to dick around on the internet or whathaveyou. Of course, I'll pay for that bit of funness later when I have to fish raisins out from behind the bed, and vacuum crushed crackers from the carpet (decidedly not fun), but being able to loosen up enough to let them cause that kind of a mess buys me time when I need it most. Also, letting the good times roll can diffuse a tense situation or switch the trajectory of a whinefest with relative ease. Instead of getting sucked into the bad vibes that often accompany the pre-dinner hour, I put on some fun dance music and we all bust a movay. The kids love it because they get to get naked and jump around on the couch, and I love it because it gives me proper justification for popping open that bottle of wine. Hey, its a party, woot woot! and I'm reeaaallly fun with a buzz on!
I am grateful to the kids for letting me stretch my fun boundaries with them, and I hope they will thank me for being the only mom at the playground in the princess cape and wig at least once before they deem me totally embarrassing.
I guess being the fun mom goes along with my general philosophy of not taking oneself too seriously. That has got to be one of my biggest pet peeves ever (that and pushing the seasons). I often find my self thinking "lighten up bitches" in regards to other parents whilst in group situations. I'm often the only mom (dads tend to have different funness thresholds) actually willing to get wet at the fountain park. I usually end up soaked by the end cuz I would spend all my energy trying to avoid getting splashed otherwise, and what is fun about that? Once, I actually saw a mom who was standing at the edge of the water area get super pissed after getting splashed by a kid at play. She huffed and puffed, grabbed her son and left in a hurry. Her cunty disposition and her fear of water had me scanning the skies for flying monkeys.
Being a fun mom is not all about the kids, either. It can definitely be used for selfish purposes. Example, if the kids want to play restaurant I can stretch the length of time they will be occupado by at least 50% if I let them use real food. So, I hook them up with crackers, raisins, apples, popcorn, pitchers of water, and let them have at it. They get a really fun experience, and I get 20 minutes of peace to dick around on the internet or whathaveyou. Of course, I'll pay for that bit of funness later when I have to fish raisins out from behind the bed, and vacuum crushed crackers from the carpet (decidedly not fun), but being able to loosen up enough to let them cause that kind of a mess buys me time when I need it most. Also, letting the good times roll can diffuse a tense situation or switch the trajectory of a whinefest with relative ease. Instead of getting sucked into the bad vibes that often accompany the pre-dinner hour, I put on some fun dance music and we all bust a movay. The kids love it because they get to get naked and jump around on the couch, and I love it because it gives me proper justification for popping open that bottle of wine. Hey, its a party, woot woot! and I'm reeaaallly fun with a buzz on!
I am grateful to the kids for letting me stretch my fun boundaries with them, and I hope they will thank me for being the only mom at the playground in the princess cape and wig at least once before they deem me totally embarrassing.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Weaner
Northern elephant seal(Mirounga angustirostris)females nurse their young for about 30 days. During this time the young quadruple their birth weight and the mothers fast, unable to leave their young to return to the sea to feed. By the end of the month, the "weaners" are robust and ready to begin their independent lives, while the females are depleted and starving. So much so that the even though they will have mated about 24 days after giving birth, the fertilized egg will not implant in the wall of the uterus for about four months... a rare phenomenon called "giving the poor bitches a break"...or technically speaking "delayed implantation". After 30 days, at risk of death, the females must leave their young, weaning them abruptly by desertion.
Any mother who has nursed a baby can feel a bit of sisterhood with the elephant seal ladies. The proud, satisfying feeling of being the fount of life...knowing that each ounce gained is an ounce transferred directly from our own resources. The deep and powerful connection experienced when we can satisfy our babies' most primal needs with the unbuttoning of a blouse. The warmth of the suckling infant connected to us once again as they were in the womb. The feeling of being trapped, and of being sucked dry as the little one drinks greedily of our time, our space, our person.
At some point the time comes for every mother-offspring dyad to end the nursing relationship. For some of us the need to do this presents itself with urgency, as if we risk death by starvation if we don't soon return to the sea. For others, it is a lengthy dialogue that requires thorough processing. Sometimes, its the baby that calls it quits, leaving these mothers vacillating between feeling wounded and relieved. Regardless of the nature of the transition, weaning marks a notable shift in the mother-child dynamic, and causes psychological and biological flux.
I'm presently weaning my 20 month old son. He is our last child. He is the last baby that will settle into the rhythmic suckling which, at its best stirred powerful feelings of euphoria, and at its worst stoked the embers of resentment. I can't desert him and head out to sea, so we are going through the transition together. I'm torn. Ready to know the freedom of not being needed quite so much and afraid of becoming irrelevant. I'm moody and irritable due to the crashing levels of prolactin, and the sore boobs that I have to hand milk in the shower. Why deal with feeling so freaked out and bovine when I know exactly how to easily remedy both symptoms? He asks me to nurse. I pause. I tell him mama's milk is going away because he is getting SO big. He asks to just "try it". I pause. I tell him no. He cries for a moment or two and then he is on to the next amusement. A couple of well-timed lollipops and he glides through the usual nursing times with very little drama. Me, I need something a little stronger. I'm mourning the end of the essential maternal connection with my children. Drying up the flow of love that can be tasted and can fill an empty little belly. Marking the end of my tenure as an actively reproductive woman. No wonder I'm a little bitchy.
Mostly I wish I could bottle the milky smell of his breath after nursing. Oh, how it gives me an almost giddy feeling of well-being that I will sorely miss.
Thanks for the 38 months of active duty, boobs. You did an amazing job.
Any mother who has nursed a baby can feel a bit of sisterhood with the elephant seal ladies. The proud, satisfying feeling of being the fount of life...knowing that each ounce gained is an ounce transferred directly from our own resources. The deep and powerful connection experienced when we can satisfy our babies' most primal needs with the unbuttoning of a blouse. The warmth of the suckling infant connected to us once again as they were in the womb. The feeling of being trapped, and of being sucked dry as the little one drinks greedily of our time, our space, our person.
At some point the time comes for every mother-offspring dyad to end the nursing relationship. For some of us the need to do this presents itself with urgency, as if we risk death by starvation if we don't soon return to the sea. For others, it is a lengthy dialogue that requires thorough processing. Sometimes, its the baby that calls it quits, leaving these mothers vacillating between feeling wounded and relieved. Regardless of the nature of the transition, weaning marks a notable shift in the mother-child dynamic, and causes psychological and biological flux.
I'm presently weaning my 20 month old son. He is our last child. He is the last baby that will settle into the rhythmic suckling which, at its best stirred powerful feelings of euphoria, and at its worst stoked the embers of resentment. I can't desert him and head out to sea, so we are going through the transition together. I'm torn. Ready to know the freedom of not being needed quite so much and afraid of becoming irrelevant. I'm moody and irritable due to the crashing levels of prolactin, and the sore boobs that I have to hand milk in the shower. Why deal with feeling so freaked out and bovine when I know exactly how to easily remedy both symptoms? He asks me to nurse. I pause. I tell him mama's milk is going away because he is getting SO big. He asks to just "try it". I pause. I tell him no. He cries for a moment or two and then he is on to the next amusement. A couple of well-timed lollipops and he glides through the usual nursing times with very little drama. Me, I need something a little stronger. I'm mourning the end of the essential maternal connection with my children. Drying up the flow of love that can be tasted and can fill an empty little belly. Marking the end of my tenure as an actively reproductive woman. No wonder I'm a little bitchy.
Mostly I wish I could bottle the milky smell of his breath after nursing. Oh, how it gives me an almost giddy feeling of well-being that I will sorely miss.
Thanks for the 38 months of active duty, boobs. You did an amazing job.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
coffee people
I'm in the PDX airport waiting for my family to pick me up after a brief trip to Davis.
Being in an airport with a latte and my laptop is my kind of an outing. I can eavesdrop and peek into little snippets of people's lives as they stop for a drink or a snack before proceeding on to their next destination. For me, this is the destination. for me, this is a fix.
I get a comforting feeling being the voyeur. Present, but not accounted for. When we get together with old friends, there is always a time in the evening when all I want is to become invisible and listen. Sneak away to a spot unseen and follow the conversation of my dearest friends as if listening to them on the radio. Laughing along quietly, making comments to myself. Interaction takes an energy I can't always spare, but observation is restorative.
I find the normal business of strangers compelling as well. Bearing witness to the details of a mother lovingly folding each tiny onesie as she reorganized her carry-on in search of her daughter's small stuffed penguin. Imaging the conversation between the two bohemian guys, dressed in black, as they pick at lomein and orange chicken for breakfast.
I fucking hate reality tv, but I could watch and listen to ordinary people doing ordinary things for days. If I had super power it would be invisibility and I would sneak into your house and watch you prepare supper....follow you to work and listen to you bullshit with your co-worker about your weekend....uh...am I starting to sound creepy? Don't worry, I'm not in your closet or your trunk...I'm here at the airport stealing small moments from strangers and savoring them like sugar cubes.
Being in an airport with a latte and my laptop is my kind of an outing. I can eavesdrop and peek into little snippets of people's lives as they stop for a drink or a snack before proceeding on to their next destination. For me, this is the destination. for me, this is a fix.
I get a comforting feeling being the voyeur. Present, but not accounted for. When we get together with old friends, there is always a time in the evening when all I want is to become invisible and listen. Sneak away to a spot unseen and follow the conversation of my dearest friends as if listening to them on the radio. Laughing along quietly, making comments to myself. Interaction takes an energy I can't always spare, but observation is restorative.
I find the normal business of strangers compelling as well. Bearing witness to the details of a mother lovingly folding each tiny onesie as she reorganized her carry-on in search of her daughter's small stuffed penguin. Imaging the conversation between the two bohemian guys, dressed in black, as they pick at lomein and orange chicken for breakfast.
I fucking hate reality tv, but I could watch and listen to ordinary people doing ordinary things for days. If I had super power it would be invisibility and I would sneak into your house and watch you prepare supper....follow you to work and listen to you bullshit with your co-worker about your weekend....uh...am I starting to sound creepy? Don't worry, I'm not in your closet or your trunk...I'm here at the airport stealing small moments from strangers and savoring them like sugar cubes.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Love hard
I think we need to love one another harder. Not deeper, not sweeter, not with more confidence or faith. But harder, louder and with more gusto.
How to do that when the love faucet is on 24-7, and the well is threatening to run dry as the thirsty babies (all 3 of them) beg, open-mouthed, for more.
Habits developed in acts of innocent self-preservation become status quo. Retreat becomes comfort in contrast to the dissonance of attention. Locks need to be unlocked, but the babies, the babies, they are always on our jock.
Rusty bits and pieces rough starting each day. Annoyance is an easier gig than compassion, and the score is never settled. Even at day's end the specter of the need fouls the quiet. The click of the keyboard is the serenade.
There is love. Quiet and compact. Woven and tangled and sinewy from stasis.
Stretch, breathe, yell, laugh, fall. Shake, shake, shake it off. Breach the protective shell without scrambling the contents. Reveal, make raw, and heal.
How to do that when the love faucet is on 24-7, and the well is threatening to run dry as the thirsty babies (all 3 of them) beg, open-mouthed, for more.
Habits developed in acts of innocent self-preservation become status quo. Retreat becomes comfort in contrast to the dissonance of attention. Locks need to be unlocked, but the babies, the babies, they are always on our jock.
Rusty bits and pieces rough starting each day. Annoyance is an easier gig than compassion, and the score is never settled. Even at day's end the specter of the need fouls the quiet. The click of the keyboard is the serenade.
There is love. Quiet and compact. Woven and tangled and sinewy from stasis.
Stretch, breathe, yell, laugh, fall. Shake, shake, shake it off. Breach the protective shell without scrambling the contents. Reveal, make raw, and heal.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Bragging rights
People compliment me all the time about the kids. In music class, at the park, in the food store, on the street. Its a regular thing. I would say normal, but its not really normal. My kids attract a lot of attention and no, its not normal.
Since Minna was little, I've been a bit perplexed as to how I should handle these situations. For some reason there is this unwritten, unspoken rule of public politeness that says that when complimented, we should do the following:
1. appreciate
2. self-depricate
3. reciprocate
So it goes a little something like this.
Them: "Oh my, your daughter speaks so well. She has an amazing vocabulary"
Me: "why, thank you" (1). "its great, but really, you just can't shut this girl up!" (2) and "your son just has the greatest hair" (3).
This bugs. Why isn't step one enough? Why can't I just say "thanks" or even (gawd forbid)..."I know, she was incredibly verbal from a very early age". I find that the three steps are particularly necessary with other parents of similarly aged kids. Try to get away with just step one and you'll find yourself ostracized to the outskirts of the playgroup.
So is it somehow bad/conceited/deluded of me to be pretty confident in the fact that my kids kick ass? I asked Dan about this once and he said..."well, I guess it depends on how much you think that reflects on you...." Well helltothefuckingyes I think that reflects on me. These kids have been my main focus for the past 6+ years (if you count trying to conceive and pregnancy, which I do), so yeah, I take pride in and take credit for their awesomeness. There I said it. My kids kick ass and I made them that way. Whether by nature or nurture, I (and of course all the other amazing people in their lives, particularly their father) kick ass at kids.
Before you get your panties in a wad at my outright conceit, let me just say, that I also take ownership of all the time they are Shitty McShitheads. Seriously. I aint saying they are perfect...yes the little one has zero table manners and the big one can't keep her hands out of her pants...Ok so the little one hasn't slept through the night more than twice in 20 months and the big one has a tendency to lose her shit when she doesn't get her way. BUTT BUTT BUTT...they are gorgeous, happy, affectionate, brilliant, capable, trusting, caring, funny, amazing kids and every ounce of what I have to offer has been funneled into these two beings with satisfying results.
So go ahead tell me how pretty, strong, musical, coordinated, sweet they are. I know and I'm happy to get the positive feedback. But oy, are they a handful at bedtime...and did I mention how I love, I mean really love, your kid's hair??
Since Minna was little, I've been a bit perplexed as to how I should handle these situations. For some reason there is this unwritten, unspoken rule of public politeness that says that when complimented, we should do the following:
1. appreciate
2. self-depricate
3. reciprocate
So it goes a little something like this.
Them: "Oh my, your daughter speaks so well. She has an amazing vocabulary"
Me: "why, thank you" (1). "its great, but really, you just can't shut this girl up!" (2) and "your son just has the greatest hair" (3).
This bugs. Why isn't step one enough? Why can't I just say "thanks" or even (gawd forbid)..."I know, she was incredibly verbal from a very early age". I find that the three steps are particularly necessary with other parents of similarly aged kids. Try to get away with just step one and you'll find yourself ostracized to the outskirts of the playgroup.
So is it somehow bad/conceited/deluded of me to be pretty confident in the fact that my kids kick ass? I asked Dan about this once and he said..."well, I guess it depends on how much you think that reflects on you...." Well helltothefuckingyes I think that reflects on me. These kids have been my main focus for the past 6+ years (if you count trying to conceive and pregnancy, which I do), so yeah, I take pride in and take credit for their awesomeness. There I said it. My kids kick ass and I made them that way. Whether by nature or nurture, I (and of course all the other amazing people in their lives, particularly their father) kick ass at kids.
Before you get your panties in a wad at my outright conceit, let me just say, that I also take ownership of all the time they are Shitty McShitheads. Seriously. I aint saying they are perfect...yes the little one has zero table manners and the big one can't keep her hands out of her pants...Ok so the little one hasn't slept through the night more than twice in 20 months and the big one has a tendency to lose her shit when she doesn't get her way. BUTT BUTT BUTT...they are gorgeous, happy, affectionate, brilliant, capable, trusting, caring, funny, amazing kids and every ounce of what I have to offer has been funneled into these two beings with satisfying results.
So go ahead tell me how pretty, strong, musical, coordinated, sweet they are. I know and I'm happy to get the positive feedback. But oy, are they a handful at bedtime...and did I mention how I love, I mean really love, your kid's hair??
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A lukewarm bowl of people soup
We have a love hate relationship with public pools. The kids love them and I, well, hate is a strong word, so let's just say they make me a bit queasy.
Growing up we rarely frequented public swimming pools. On Long Island, backyard pools were relatively common and while we didn't have one, it wasn't that hard to wrangle an invitation to swim at someone's house on a hot day.We also had the beach really close by and could get our swimming fix in the ocean or the bay. I have one memory of going to a public pool with my 3rd grade teacher, Mr. B., and that's about it.
In Portland, backyard pools are few and far between. In fact, when looking at real estate they are often considered more of a detriment than an added value. We don't know anyone with their own pool, and both kids LOVE the water, so we hit the public pools on about a weekly basis. When we had just one kid, Dan covered most of the pool visits. My experience with public pools in Portland was limited to the water aerobics class I took when pregnant with Minna. Me and ten other ladies rocking to the oldies and pushing around foam "bar bells" while the teacher yelled upbeat commands from the pool deck. Embarrassing.
But now we have 2 kids, so my draft card has been called and I have to report for public pool duty. Look, don't get me wrong, public pools are a great community resource blah, blah, blah, but the bottom line is that they are essentially a lukewarm bowl of people soup and that just grosses me out. Not to mention the pee. Yes, virginia, people (all people) pee in pools. If you tell me you have never peed in a pool, I will pretend to be impressed, but deep down I will know you are lying. I remember my friend Amy W. had a sign in her bathroom that said..."we don't swim in your toilet, please don't pee in our pool". Well, come on over Woytusik family, the water in my commode is just fine. I also remember this rumor at camp that if you peed in the pool a red cloud of would form around you. I tested it. I still do, but always in a group of people so if it did happen the culprit could not be readily identified. Red clouds never appear. But I do wonder why not? It seems like this would be easy enough to make happen. Probably because entire public pools would just be red from all the people peeing and trying to blame it on their kids or their friends... and swimming in a RED lukewarm bowl of people soup is just straight up nasty.
And then there is the poop. On my last visit to a public pool, some kid (I am really putting my faith in the public pool population here and assuming that the pooper was underage)dropped the kids off at the pool (see?? there is a reason for the saying) and set off a hilarious (if it wasn't so gross) procedure involving about 8 teenage lifeguards, a reeeeeeaaaaallly long pool skimmer, latex gloves, masks, and collection vessels. There were whistles, announcements nobody could understand and general confusion. Could we go back in the pool? Was the haz mat contained? Minna asked me why someone would poop in the pool, and as I was trying to come up with an answer, a life guard who had overheard the question said..."oh, it happens a lot...its because when people (little kids, please let it be little kids) sit on those water jets over there...things happen". Hmmmmm.... here's a thought....turn off the fucking enema jets people!
So are you feeling me now? I've not even mentioned all the humanity!...there are some seriously poor bathing suit choices being made out there and I really dislike the fact that I have to be subjected to this type of flesh display. C'mon sister, tuck that flabdomen in a one-piece, would ya? (yes, I have a flabdomen and yes, I practice what I preach). And gents, easy with the heedeous tats, ya dig? Teenage mutant turtles on the back and woody woodpecker on your chest? You are a cartoonish enigma and you are giving me a headache.
So, that's that. Public pools are my cross to bear until Dan either makes it big and we can afford a pool and a pool boy. or until I can convince the kids that the bathtub is really just as good despite the lack of enema jets.
Happy swimming.
Growing up we rarely frequented public swimming pools. On Long Island, backyard pools were relatively common and while we didn't have one, it wasn't that hard to wrangle an invitation to swim at someone's house on a hot day.We also had the beach really close by and could get our swimming fix in the ocean or the bay. I have one memory of going to a public pool with my 3rd grade teacher, Mr. B., and that's about it.
In Portland, backyard pools are few and far between. In fact, when looking at real estate they are often considered more of a detriment than an added value. We don't know anyone with their own pool, and both kids LOVE the water, so we hit the public pools on about a weekly basis. When we had just one kid, Dan covered most of the pool visits. My experience with public pools in Portland was limited to the water aerobics class I took when pregnant with Minna. Me and ten other ladies rocking to the oldies and pushing around foam "bar bells" while the teacher yelled upbeat commands from the pool deck. Embarrassing.
But now we have 2 kids, so my draft card has been called and I have to report for public pool duty. Look, don't get me wrong, public pools are a great community resource blah, blah, blah, but the bottom line is that they are essentially a lukewarm bowl of people soup and that just grosses me out. Not to mention the pee. Yes, virginia, people (all people) pee in pools. If you tell me you have never peed in a pool, I will pretend to be impressed, but deep down I will know you are lying. I remember my friend Amy W. had a sign in her bathroom that said..."we don't swim in your toilet, please don't pee in our pool". Well, come on over Woytusik family, the water in my commode is just fine. I also remember this rumor at camp that if you peed in the pool a red cloud of would form around you. I tested it. I still do, but always in a group of people so if it did happen the culprit could not be readily identified. Red clouds never appear. But I do wonder why not? It seems like this would be easy enough to make happen. Probably because entire public pools would just be red from all the people peeing and trying to blame it on their kids or their friends... and swimming in a RED lukewarm bowl of people soup is just straight up nasty.
And then there is the poop. On my last visit to a public pool, some kid (I am really putting my faith in the public pool population here and assuming that the pooper was underage)dropped the kids off at the pool (see?? there is a reason for the saying) and set off a hilarious (if it wasn't so gross) procedure involving about 8 teenage lifeguards, a reeeeeeaaaaallly long pool skimmer, latex gloves, masks, and collection vessels. There were whistles, announcements nobody could understand and general confusion. Could we go back in the pool? Was the haz mat contained? Minna asked me why someone would poop in the pool, and as I was trying to come up with an answer, a life guard who had overheard the question said..."oh, it happens a lot...its because when people (little kids, please let it be little kids) sit on those water jets over there...things happen". Hmmmmm.... here's a thought....turn off the fucking enema jets people!
So are you feeling me now? I've not even mentioned all the humanity!...there are some seriously poor bathing suit choices being made out there and I really dislike the fact that I have to be subjected to this type of flesh display. C'mon sister, tuck that flabdomen in a one-piece, would ya? (yes, I have a flabdomen and yes, I practice what I preach). And gents, easy with the heedeous tats, ya dig? Teenage mutant turtles on the back and woody woodpecker on your chest? You are a cartoonish enigma and you are giving me a headache.
So, that's that. Public pools are my cross to bear until Dan either makes it big and we can afford a pool and a pool boy. or until I can convince the kids that the bathtub is really just as good despite the lack of enema jets.
Happy swimming.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
as if
I were wearing a noose around my neck and some spiffy cement shoes, I feel like life has me on a short leash in the slow lane.
Out of complacency, fatigue, and lack of spark I find myself dwelling here. Going through the motions, keeping face, far more a voyeur than an adventuress.
Stuck between reality and fantasy. In a life that I can't get comfortable with, holding on to only the smallest sliver of aspiration.
I wish I could say it is just a bad day.
Out of complacency, fatigue, and lack of spark I find myself dwelling here. Going through the motions, keeping face, far more a voyeur than an adventuress.
Stuck between reality and fantasy. In a life that I can't get comfortable with, holding on to only the smallest sliver of aspiration.
I wish I could say it is just a bad day.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Getting to know me
Who am I? Long silence.
What do I do? More silence.
What's my deal, anyway?
The long and the short of it is that I am a 36 year old white chick and I am all about compromise. Part-time stay at home mom of 2, Part-time academic researcher; living in a major metropolitan area, but one that is clean, safe and as close to trees as it is to commerce; always either the big fish in a small pond, or a small fish in a big pond; committed, talented and smart enough to kick ass in an ordinary way with relatively little effort, yet dream of the extraordinary. Accepting of the fact that exciting dreams made to fit into an ordinary lifestyle tend to lose their form.
Hmmmm....thats some deep shit right there. That's not quite what I meant to write when I started this post, but there it is. Huh.
What do I do? More silence.
What's my deal, anyway?
The long and the short of it is that I am a 36 year old white chick and I am all about compromise. Part-time stay at home mom of 2, Part-time academic researcher; living in a major metropolitan area, but one that is clean, safe and as close to trees as it is to commerce; always either the big fish in a small pond, or a small fish in a big pond; committed, talented and smart enough to kick ass in an ordinary way with relatively little effort, yet dream of the extraordinary. Accepting of the fact that exciting dreams made to fit into an ordinary lifestyle tend to lose their form.
Hmmmm....thats some deep shit right there. That's not quite what I meant to write when I started this post, but there it is. Huh.
Monday, January 5, 2009
well fuckity fuck
Damn, I'm predictable. Here I am a year later. One post on this blog and a year's worth of shit still in my head. Seriously, could I be more cliche? New year, new resolve to write more....blah, blah, blah. It boils down to damn laziness really. I write some hot shit in my head....engaging, hilarious, honest shit. If there were such thing as a head to blog translator, I'd be all set. Famous, even. But there aint. So here I sit at a coffee shop (oy the cliche continues) all determined to put my thoughts into writing this year. I'm gonna roll with it while I can and we'll see what happens.
Next up: Introductions
Next up: Introductions
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